Let Sleeping Dogs Lie
by Aini NuFire
Summary: Secrets have a way of festering even when they should stay buried. A year after the treaty, the Duke of Savoy still wants answers about his missing chancellor. So when Athos and Porthos arrive with royal missives, he's not going to waste the opportunity to get what he wants.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Thanks to my guests who reviewed the last "One For All" chapter! This fic takes place after season 1 and there will be six chapters.**

**Disclaimer: Not mine. Thanks to 29Pieces for beta reading!**

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Chapter 1

Aramis sat at the table in the garrison courtyard cleaning his pistols. The movements were rote and required no conscious effort on his part, which allowed his thoughts to become tangled up in a mesh of turmoil. The Queen was with child—his child.

He had never imagined that one night of indiscretion could result in such far-reaching consequences. He hadn't _thought_ at all, as Athos had chastised him. But it wasn't out of carelessness or some bold infatuation. No, that night, overcome with grief and loneliness, Aramis had gravitated toward a strong, caring woman who had reached out to comfort him even though she was just as adrift as he. They'd sought solace in each other, ignoring their stations and the forbidden nature of such entanglement. For one night, Anne had been just a lonely woman and Aramis just a man whose heart had already begun to soften toward her.

It should have just been that, a night removed from reality, a brief escape into loving arms. The next morning they would return to their duty and never speak of it again.

Now though…now it was more. And yet it wasn't, because it could never be. Aramis could never be with Anne—the _Queen_. He could never be with their child.

The pain of such loss of something he had never truly had was as poignant as when Isabelle had lost their baby all those years ago. And now Aramis would have to live with yet another child that he would never be able to hold and love. Perhaps these were divine punishments for his indiscretions. But then why was he doomed to love that which could never be his? Isabelle, Adele…Anne.

"That pistol is going to go flying out of your hand the next time you try to use it."

He blinked, startled out of his morose musings, and found d'Artagnan standing before him with arms crossed and a hint of an amused expression on his face. "What?"

"You've oiled it three times now."

Aramis glanced down at the weapon in his hands and realized the metal did have an extra sheen from one too many coats. He set it aside.

D'Artagnan's expression turned sympathetic. "Are you worried about Athos and Porthos? Because it's a simple mission. There's no reason for them to have any trouble."

Right, _that_ was also in the back of his mind, nagging just under the surface with the persistence of a dog gnawing on a bone. And since Aramis couldn't divulge the more prominent source of his inner turmoil, he quickly latched onto the latter as an excuse for his inattentiveness.

"I know. I just can never rest easy whenever Savoy is concerned."

Which was likely why Aramis hadn't been sent on this assignment with his brothers. Athos and Porthos were delivering some royal documents to the Duke, nothing out of the ordinary given France and Savoy were allies bound by treaty. But any thought of Savoy left an acrid taste in Aramis's mouth and the chill of twenty—twenty-_one_—ghosts slithering across his heart.

He had come to terms with the truth of what happened six years ago and Treville's role in it. He just wished someone else had been sent on this particular assignment.

"We're not on duty for a while," d'Artagnan said. "We could spar."

Aramis canted his head in thought for a brief moment before nodding. He figured it _would_ be a good way to work off some of his pent up nervous energy.

He stood up from the bench and shrugged out of his leather doublet. It was already warm, so he didn't bother retrieving his sparring coat. D'Artagnan tossed his jacket on the table next to Aramis's and they both drew their rapiers.

Taking positions facing each other in the courtyard, Aramis raised his blade and saluted. He waited a beat and then attacked. Their swords met with a resounding clang that swiftly became a ringing chorus of clashing thrusts and parries. D'Artagnan had been notably good from the beginning, but Aramis could tell his skills were sharpening by the day.

The two of them lunged and spun, pivoted and feinted in a dizzying dance of equal match. It gave Aramis quite the thrill and he found himself grinning. D'Artagnan, too, chuckled before increasing the fervency of his attack. They'd garnered an audience and soon whoops and whistles joined the symphony of steel.

And the images of long ago battles and lost children receded into a dormant corner for at least a little while.

o.0.o

After two days on the road, the wealthy estate Athos and Porthos rode up to should have been a welcome sight. But in truth, neither of them harbored courteous feelings toward the Duke of Savoy nor relished the prospect of seeing him again. He had led the slaughter of twenty musketeers, that could not be disputed, but justice would never be done and the truth could never come out. They would have to bow with feigned respect and bear the tedious expectations of their diplomatic mission.

They pulled their horses to a stop out front and dismounted. A stableboy immediately appeared to take their mounts. Athos removed his hat and strode to the main entrance to knock, Porthos following suit. A servant answered and granted them admittance into the foyer where they then waited for their presence to be announced.

A few minutes later, the Duchess glided in, greeting them with a regal nod. "Gentlemen, welcome. Victor is out back and will be in momentarily."

Athos canted his head in acknowledgement. Other than that, no indication passed between them of their prior dealings when they had made a mad dash to the Chatelet to move Cluzet before the Duke could discover his chancellor was being held there.

"How is my dear brother?" she inquired.

"He is well, Your Grace," Athos replied.

She smiled. "I received word of the Queen's pregnancy. Please convey my well wishes to them both when you return."

Athos's stomach automatically clenched at the mention of that, and the reminder of the dark secret he carried in regards to it filled him with brimming fury. Should Aramis's treason be discovered, they would both hang. And the fact that there was a child, tangible _proof_…good God, Aramis had always been reckless to the point of stupidity, but this went way beyond that.

And there was nothing that could be done about it. The best they could hope for was that the child would not resemble the musketeer too greatly and no one would have cause to question his parentage.

Porthos gave him an odd look at his silence and cleared his throat. "We will, Your Grace."

The Duke entered then, strutting toward them with all the pomp Athos remembered in his bearing. Yet he wore no fine coat to match his posturing, his shirt sleeves rolled up as though he had been doing some work outside. Athos supposed it shouldn't come as a surprise; Victor Amadeus was the type of man who wasn't afraid to get his hands dirty.

The Duke's gaze hardened perceptibly upon seeing them. There was a reason Louis had chosen Athos and Porthos to deliver the documents—they had made an imposing impression on Victor when he was in Paris a year ago to sign the treaty and Louis enjoyed wrong-footing the Duke.

"Athos, isn't it?" he said coolly.

Athos inclined his head in a forced gesture of respect and reached into his doublet for the documents. "From the King of France."

Victor's mouth pinched as he took them and broke the seal to read their contents. "A reply is requested?" he said after a few minutes.

"Yes, Your Grace," Athos answered. "We will await your response."

"I will need some time to formulate it," he said sharply.

"As you see fit," Athos said blandly, though inwardly he was restraining his irritation. He'd known this was a strong possibility, the Duke delaying in a petty show of disrespect to the Crown. It irked him not only for the waste of time but also because he'd rather not spend an extra moment here if necessary.

"You could probably use some refreshment after your journey," the Duchess put in, gesturing for them to move into the adjoining receiving room. "I will have some food and drink prepared for you."

Athos and Porthos both nodded politely and made their way into the lavish chamber with upholstered chairs and thick drapes as rich as the artistic tapestries on two of the walls. Though sore from riding, neither dared to take a seat, their clothes covered in dust from the road.

"How long you think he'll make us wait?" Porthos asked in the brief period they were left alone.

"Hard to say. He doesn't want us here, but he won't want to appear at the King's beck and call."

Porthos snorted as he roved his gaze over the furnishings. "If he keeps us waitin' too long, I'm gonna put my boots up on his fancy furniture."

Athos's lips twitched; he had no objection to that. Save that it would be an insult to the Duchess as well and she _was_ their ally. France's most valuable spy within Savoy.

A servant brought in a tray with some grapes, a pitcher of water, and two cups, which she held as Athos and Porthos quietly availed themselves of the proffered sustenance. When they'd had their fill, Athos dismissed her and they resumed waiting. And waiting. Porthos had taken to pacing and poking his nose in every little thing in the room. Athos was getting ready to tell him to just sit in the damn chair when another servant appeared.

"Messieurs, the Duke has declared he needs more time to consider his response. I am to take you to some prepared rooms where you may retire and await him."

Athos gritted his teeth, but unfortunately he could not protest. Porthos looked equally miffed as they turned to follow the servant through the house. Athos did not anticipate much courtesy from the Duke, and half expected to be escorted to a loft above the stables, but as they turned down a corridor that led to neither proper guest rooms nor even the servants' quarters, a flicker of unease prickled the back of his neck.

His gut instinct was only confirmed when three men stepped out into the hall from the door at the end, swords unsheathed. Athos and Porthos pulled up short, Athos's hand going to the hilt of his own weapon. But heavy footsteps from behind had him casting a look over his shoulder. Three more men had come up on the rear, also armed. The servant ducked away quickly, leaving the two musketeers surrounded.

"We are King's musketeers here on business from the King of France," Athos warned as the men converged on them and started relieving them of their weapons.

"This ain't France," one of them responded.

Athos's jaw tightened as he resisted the urge to fight back. He could see Porthos struggling with the same, but they were outnumbered and breaking out into a skirmish in the Duke's own house would amount to a nightmarish international incident. Although, unlawfully detaining King's musketeers also amounted to an international incident, if the Duke was involved. But how could he not be? And what did he hope to accomplish with this blatant violation of diplomatic relations?

One of the men roughly shoved Athos forward toward the door at the end of the hall. Porthos glowered as he followed.

The door led to a set of stairs that went below ground to a cellar. Correction, dungeon. To the left looked like storage, but the right led down a tunnel that had cells fixed along one side. Athos and Porthos were pushed into one together, and while held at sword point, were divested of their coats and had shackles snapped around their wrists.

"What is the meaning of this?" Athos demanded, voice reverberating off the dank stone walls with the force of his ire.

The men said nothing as they finished securing the musketeers to more chains affixed to the walls. Then another figure joined them, a hulking shadow filling the threshold of the cell door. Victor Amadeus. Athos's stomach soured with the knowledge he was right.

"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded again, voice calmer but no less deadly.

Victor stepped into the cell, eyes alight with smugness and hunger. "I haven't forgotten how you humiliated me in Paris, Athos of the King's Musketeers."

Athos narrowed his eyes. "You were the one who insisted on a duel. And I apologized for letting myself get carried away."

Victor snorted. "You wanted to kill me. Still do. I can see it in your eyes." His mouth quirked upward. "Perhaps as retribution for the musketeer scum I slaughtered six years ago."

Athos stiffened at the admission. The likelihood of them walking out of here had just drastically decreased.

"You bastard," Porthos growled, seemingly unaware of the implications of the Duke's open declaration.

Victor shot him a scathing look. "I know what those musketeers were doing in Savoy, and I know my chancellor Cluzet was taken by France." He paused, stepping forward until he was only a few feet from Athos. "I want answers, and now I'm finally going to get them."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thank you guests Uia and Laureleaf for your reviews!**

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Chapter 2

Athos stared back at the Duke staunchly. "What makes you think we have any answers to give you?"

"Your obvious hatred of me must stem from a personal nature," Victor replied. "I did kill twenty of your fellow musketeers."

Again with the casual admission. It meant the Duke had no intention of releasing them once he was finished. Porthos flicked a look at Athos that suggested he'd noticed as well.

"You claim they were assassins sent to murder you but they weren't," Athos declared. "You slaughtered innocent men in their sleep."

"I am not a fool!" Victor snapped, stepping close and seething into Athos's face. "I know Cluzet languishes in a French prison."

"I know nothing of that."

The Duke's mouth curved upward in a sneer. "We'll see." He gestured to his men. "Bring him."

Athos stoically bore the manhandling as he was unchained from the wall and removed from the cell as quickly as he had been thrust into it. Porthos growled and yanked at his restraints, rattling the heavy metal in protest though it did no good. Athos was taken down the dingy corridor to another cell that was bare save for a hook hanging in the middle of the chamber. His arms were yanked up and the chain of his shackles looped over the hook so that his arms were stretched up above his head though not high enough that his feet weren't still firmly on the floor. A chill slithered under the folds of his shirt, which would provide poor protection in this dank dungeon the longer it was to be his and Porthos's accommodations.

Victor followed them into the cell and began rolling up his sleeves as his men retreated to the corridor. Athos was once again reminded of how the Duke liked to be hands-on in his dealings.

"Where is Cluzet?"

"I don't know."

A punch to his ribs drove the oxygen from his lungs. Suspended as he was with his diaphragm stretched, Athos couldn't catch his breath before the next blow hit him on the other side.

"Where is Cluzet?" the Duke repeated.

Athos sucked in a harsh gasp. "I cannot tell you what I do not know."

Three successive blows sent him spinning in his chains and wheezing as his lungs fought to expand against his strained rib cage.

Victor grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked Athos's head back. "You knew I was responsible for taking out those trespassing musketeer dogs, which means you knew what their mission was."

An image of the scar down the Duke's back flashed in Athos's mind.

"I had barely joined the Musketeers when the massacre happened," he gritted out.

In truth, it hadn't even been at the forefront of Athos's mind when he'd joined the garrison, too wrapped up in the self-recriminating grief and anguish of the deaths of his beloved brother and murderous wife. He'd witnessed the return of the slain, of course, had stood in attendance at the burial. And he'd known there was one survivor, though he hadn't become acquainted with Aramis until later when the wounded man had finally recovered enough to venture from his sickbed. The massacre of Savoy had never held much personal ramifications for him. Not until Marsac had returned to dredge up accusations against the captain, and then Athos had taken it personally. Despite the evidence when he saw that scar on the Duke's back, he had staunchly denied his captain's involvement.

And been wrong.

"You found out about it though," Victor pressed. "Where is my chancellor?"

Athos glowered at the man and said nothing. Victor stepped back and punched him across the face. Athos's head snapped to the side and stars flickered across his vision.

"It was no coincidence musketeers were sent to murder me the same night my chancellor went missing," Victor continued.

"They were not assassins!" Athos exploded, twisting in his chains at the Duke. "It was a training exercise! You murdered twenty innocent men on misinformation!"

"Lies!"

A punch to the stomach sent Athos into convulsing dry heaves until his legs gave out and he sagged limply in the chains, wrenching his shoulders painfully.

"I will have answers," Victor vowed. "Today, tomorrow, or weeks from now. It is up to you how much you and your companion will suffer before I do."

Athos heard retreating steps, and then two sets of boots entered his vision, followed by hands that roughly hauled him up and off the hook. He bit back a cry at the pain that radiated through his shoulders and down his rib cage. He tried to get his feet under him as he was dragged from the cell and back to the first one where he was unceremoniously dumped on the cold, dank stone. There was a clink of chains as he was once again secured to the ones attached to the wall. Then came the sound of retreating footsteps followed by the door slamming shut.

Athos gingerly rolled over and pushed himself into an upright position to get off the filthy floor.

"You a'right?" Porthos asked, tone gruff with murderous intent.

His ribs protested the movement as he scooted back to prop himself up against the wall in an effort to alleviate the pressure and ease his breathing. "I've had worse."

Porthos's mouth pressed into a tight line, his dark eyes wavering with grim worry. They both knew that worse was exactly what was in store for them.

o.0.o

Standing on guard duty at the palace could be tedious and it was only natural for eyes to wander, out of boredom, out of watchfulness. Aramis, however, couldn't help stealing glances at Anne where she sat under a shaded awning in the gardens. Her pregnancy was beginning to show, and it lit up her features with a radiant glow. It warmed Aramis's heart to see such genuine joy in her eyes. He only wished he could share in it besides the cordial bows and well wishes any subject might give.

He wished it could be his joy as well.

"Captain Treville," Louis spoke up from where he sat at the Queen's side as they enjoyed their afternoon refreshments. "What is the status of the documents sent to Savoy?"

"I sent Athos and Porthos, as you requested, Your Majesty," Treville replied. "They were instructed to wait for the Duke's response before returning."

The King huffed. "Savoy better fulfill the requests, given it's part of our treaty with them."

"I'm sure they will," Anne said, placing a hand on her husband's arm.

Aramis remembered what it was like when she'd touched him with such gentle tenderness, the warmth of her skin and softness of her body. He tore his gaze away.

"Victor could try to delay with some poppycock excuse or other, just to keep France waiting," Louis groused. "Did you tell the musketeers to demand a prompt response?"

"They are aware of your wishes," Treville assured him. "I'm sure they will remind the Duke of the importance of handling these matters efficiently."

"I should have told them to threaten him." Louis's face cracked into a toothy grin. "Do you remember how Athos thrashed Victor in that duel last year?"

"I do recall the event, Your Majesty," Treville said with tight politeness.

Aramis wished he had been there. He would have liked to see the Duke of Savoy humiliated in a duel. Or done it himself. It was the least the monster deserved for what he'd done.

For those twenty dead musketeers slain in a godforsaken forest far from home would never get true justice, as the man responsible was untouchable and the secrets surrounding the massacre too important to ever risk exposure. And that was something Aramis just had to live with.

He looked back at Anne, catching a stray look from her directed at him before it hurriedly flitted away. There were many things he just had to live with letting go of, and he wondered if he could ever find peace in doing so, or if he, too, like his murdered brothers, were doomed to a legacy of heartache and tragedy.

o.0.o

D'Artagnan watched Aramis watch the Queen, an uncomfortable feeling niggling at his mind. He quickly dismissed the accompanying thought. Surely Aramis wouldn't be _that_ stupid. Not that he ever kept a tight rein on his appreciative wandering eye, which when it came to the Queen could be just as dangerous. Besides, she was _pregnant_.

And yet, d'Artagnan couldn't fully dispel the impression forming in his mind as he watched his friend sinking into a similar state from that morning, and he was beginning to suspect it had nothing to do with Savoy. It wasn't infatuation that marked Aramis's dark eyes, but something more akin to melancholy, pain, something more like…more like what d'Artagnan currently felt in regards to Constance since she'd chosen her boor of a husband over him. It looked like love.

Which was ridiculous and _treasonous_. When could it have happened anyway? Aramis was never shy about doting affections upon any woman, even Her Majesty, but at what point had it turned into this? D'Artagnan wondered if Athos and Porthos knew. He wondered what they'd say to Aramis, or what they might have already said. Probably something along the lines of "don't be stupid." Not that it looked like Aramis would listen.

But, unfortunately, d'Artagnan knew exactly what he must be feeling—if it was true. Though, loving Constance didn't carry a _death sentence_. Still, d'Artagnan found he could sympathize. And since Athos and Porthos weren't here, it fell to him to watch out for their wayward brother and make sure he really didn't do anything stupid.

Like get caught staring googly-eyed at the Queen.

Squaring his jaw, d'Artagnan casually walked over to take up position next to Aramis. When the marksman didn't even register the change, d'Artagnan elbowed him. Aramis shot him a sharp look and a frown. D'Artagnan just flashed him a cheeky grin in return, which earned him an eye roll.

"You might try admiring some of the other flowers in the garden," he leaned in and whispered.

Aramis furrowed his brow at him but didn't say anything. He must really be lost in his thoughts not to have a quip on hand. It only lent credence to d'Artagnan's sinking suspicion, though here was not the place to broach it.

A messenger scurried across the lawn and passed a note to the King. Upon reading it, Louis's expression darkened.

He surged to his feet. "Captain, a word." Without waiting, the King strode out of the gardens and back toward the palace.

Treville gestured at d'Artagnan and Aramis to follow, and they all quickened their pace to catch up.

Louis stopped at the fountain, away from any audiences, and pivoted sharply. "I have just received a message via carrier pigeon that the musketeers sent to Savoy have been taken prisoner."

D'Artagnan's brows shot up to his hairline. "What?" he blurted.

"On what grounds?" Treville asked.

"Apparently Victor is still obsessing over his chancellor, Cluzet, and intends to extract answers from the musketeers."

D'Artagnan stiffened and he caught sight of Aramis going pale.

"We cannot allow that information to fall into his hands!" Louis continued, sounding more like a panicked child than a sovereign.

"My men will not talk," Treville instantly assured him. "And we cannot divulge that France received word of their capture. The Duke is still unaware of the spy within his household."

The Duchess, d'Artagnan realized. She must have been the one to send word to her brother about Athos and Porthos. But would she do more for them? Or would it be too much of a risk?

Louis's shoulders dropped. "Of course, you're right. And I cannot go to war over two musketeers. But these actions cannot be tolerated! And I trust your estimation of your men, Captain, but you cannot guarantee they will withstand torture. Something must be done."

D'Artagnan's stomach clenched. "What about a small group of men sent to retrieve Athos and Porthos," he put in. "Aramis and I will go."

Louis scoffed. "How do you expect to go up against the Duke's estate?"

"I don't know yet, but we will. We can't leave them there."

"We cannot tip our hand either." The King turned to the captain. "Treville, this is a mess."

"D'Artagnan's suggestion is our best course of action," Treville replied. "A stealth rescue will not implicate France. And should their presence be noted, a group of three men can easily be explained as acting on their own. For all anyone would know, they were expected to rendezvous with Athos and Porthos in Savoy and discovered their plight on their own."

Louis pursed his mouth. "I suppose… But if your men are caught, I cannot sanction their actions," he warned.

Treville nodded sagely. "I understand, Your Majesty."

"And what of the original problem of Savoy getting its hands on state secrets?"

"I promise you, your musketeers would take them to their graves."

Louis drew his shoulders back. "Very well, Treville. Do not fail me."

With that, he headed back to the gardens.

"Come on," Treville said. "We must leave before the Cardinal becomes aware of the situation and tries to convince the King to change his mind."

D'Artagnan fell into step beside his captain. "Three men?" he repeated, arching a brow.

"I'm going with you."

D'Artagnan and Aramis exchanged a look but didn't say anything.

Treville paused to give them an austere look in return, his gaze shifting toward Aramis. "I have no intention of letting Savoy claim any more musketeers."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Thank you guests Laureleaf and Uia for your reviews!**

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Chapter 3

Porthos spat a glob of blood and saliva at Victor's feet. Struggling to lift his head, he gave the Duke a baleful glare through the one eye that hadn't swollen shut.

Victor wiped his bloodied knuckles on a handkerchief. "The musketeers seemed to have gained some fortitude since I last faced off with them," he commented casually. "It's a shame you weren't part of that assassination group. They might have put up a decent fight otherwise."

"You killed them in their sleep!" Porthos snarled, lunging forward against the chains holding his arms above his head. With his stature, his elbows were slightly bent and not strained from the position. Not that his body wasn't pulsing with a myriad of other hurts.

"They would've given you a fight if you'd fought honorably," he snapped. "Tha' makes you the coward."

Victor backhanded him across the face, leaving his ears ringing. "I won't listen to talk of honor from a musketeer cur."

He kicked out at Porthos's knee, buckling the joint so that Porthos finally dropped in the chains, shins brushing the rough stone. He choked on a growl as pain shot through both his leg and shoulders.

Victor turned to his men standing in the corridor. "Take him back," he barked.

Porthos grunted as he was hauled down from the hook and dragged back to the other cell. His knee twinged with each fumbled step but he didn't think anything had broken. The Duke was drawing out the severity of the beatings. Porthos imagined it was only a matter of time before his patience waned and he moved on to more brutal methods.

The guards shoved him against the wall and latched his shackles to the chains there, then left. Porthos bit back a groan as he tentatively stretched his leg out. It was definitely bruised, like most of the rest of him, and had already started swelling. He shuffled back against the wall, leaning his head against it, and tracked his gaze to the adjacent wall where Athos was lying on his side, breaths whistling out shallowly. Porthos worried about his ribs, which had taken just as much of a pummeling as Porthos's own. That and the dank conditions were not an ideal combination for warding off lung congestion.

It had been two days now. Two days of them taking turns being dragged away for the Duke's relentless questioning. It would be days more before anyone would begin to wonder at their delay, perhaps weeks before anyone was sent to inquire about it. And even then, the Duke would likely deny they were being held, probably say they'd left with the response as expected. It was a long road between Savoy and Paris along which anything could have befallen them. Porthos closed his eyes against the thought of enduring increasing torture with no hope of a rescue.

"At least Aramis isn't here," he chuffed. Though he missed the cheeky banter that his brother always managed to muster in situations like these to lift their spirits and keep them going, Aramis had already suffered enough at the hands of the Duke; Porthos was glad his friend wasn't being subjected to more, including the slanderous accusations the Duke kept making against those twenty-two musketeers six years ago.

Athos made no comment. Without Aramis, the two of them hadn't exactly filled their captivity with lively conversation, but Porthos wanted some assurance that his friend wasn't slowly dying from some unseen internal injuries.

"He's gonna be sick wit' worry though," Porthos went on, his heart giving a pang at that. Savoy had taken so much from the Musketeers, Aramis particularly. And to take two more of his closest brothers…Porthos couldn't bear the thought.

"Hm," came the mumbled response.

Porthos flexed his knee again, wincing at the movement. "He's likely to do somethin' stupid." And that scared him. Would Aramis survive yet another loss?

"He has d'Artagnan to watch out for him," Athos said quietly, voice laden with the weariness that plagued them both. But Porthos was glad for the break in the lonely, oppressive silence.

He snorted. "The boy is jus' as hot-headed. They both need lookin' after."

Athos made another hummed response, his laconic quietness doing little to keep Porthos from darker trains of thought.

He briefly closed his eyes again as he was overwhelmed with morose resignation. "We ain't likely to ever see 'em again, are we?"

Athos opened his eyes. His face was smeared with dried blood around a split lip and cheekbone and mottled bruises. "The King may grow impatient not receiving a response," he finally said.

Porthos harrumphed. "Don't mean anyone would ever find us. Figure the Duke would deny us bein' here." He knew he shouldn't entertain such defeatist thoughts, but he was hungry, tired, and in pain. The Duke's men never gave them an opportunity to fight back or attempt escape, not that they would get far in their weakening conditions.

After a few more moments of heavy silence, Athos shifted, struggling to pull himself upright to slump against the wall. "If Aramis were here, he would say to have faith."

Porthos arched a brow at him.

"I said Aramis would say it."

He grinned at that, despite his facial muscles aching with the movement. Neither he nor Athos put much stock in faith and religion, but Aramis did. How many times had they been in dire straits and come out the other side? Porthos had always chocked it up to their own fortitude, as he knew Athos did, but Aramis would pray and praise God, declaring Providence was looking out for them. Porthos would retort that they looked out for each other.

Maybe the two weren't mutually exclusive though…

Porthos still didn't feel comfortable placing his trust in some unknown, unseen God, but he could always place it in his brothers. And if God lent them a helping hand in finding and rescuing them, well, he wouldn't begrudge that.

They just had to hold out that long, and at that thought, some of Porthos's mood dampened again, because who knew how long it would be. It could very well be they would take the secret of the Duchess and Cluzet to their graves. He wondered if the Duchess might be able to help them, but he quickly stopped himself from musing so out loud to Athos. Best keep the words locked deep inside a vault where they couldn't accidentally slip out when the torture got worse.

Athos had fallen quiet again, eyes closed and shallow breaths eking out in the stale air. Porthos closed his eyes and tried to find what meager sleep he could before the Duke returned to continue the torment.

o.0.o

Treville pulled back on the reins to stop his horse at the edge of the woods just outside the Duke of Savoy's estate, Aramis and d'Artagnan halting behind him. It had been a two-day ride taut with apprehension at what they would find once they arrived. From the cover of the trees, they got a good look at the front of the grounds, which seemed mostly quiet and devoid of activity, save for a couple of servants out at the stable.

"What's the plan?" d'Artagnan asked.

"We need to get in and out without causing a disturbance," Treville replied. A feat he had been considering throughout the entire journey.

"Do you think the Duchess would help us?"

Treville shook his head. "We cannot risk exposing her. Our best option is for you and Aramis to sneak inside and find Athos and Porthos. I will distract the Duke."

"How?" Aramis asked, eyes narrowing.

"By calling upon him," Treville replied simply.

"You're going to just walk through the front door?" the marksman said incredulously.

"Won't that make the Duke suspicious?" d'Artagnan added.

"Probably," Treville conceded. "The man has grown more paranoid over the years." Which was not unexpected, considering his suspicions were, in fact, founded. "But it's the best way to buy time for you to find Athos and Porthos and get them out without the Duke knowing."

"He will know it won't be a coincidence," Aramis pointed out.

"No, but what can he accuse me of without admitting to unlawfully imprisoning the King's men?"

Aramis's mouth pressed into a tight line. "I don't like it."

"It's an order," Treville said in a tone that brooked no further discussion on the matter.

He nudged his horse into a trot and rode directly up to the house. As he dismounted, he cast a furtive look back at the woods to make sure his men were still concealed while the stableboy came to take his mount. Then he strode to the front door and knocked. A servant admitted him, leaving him in the foyer while he went to announce his arrival to the Duke.

It didn't take long for Victor to storm in, expression hard and exuding waves of hostility. "Treville, you are a long way from Paris."

The captain held himself with deferential authority, used to meeting open derision with diplomatic respect, even when it wasn't genuine. "I was near the border on personal business," he replied cordially. "And heard about some trouble with bandits in the area. I know the King would be displeased if I didn't check in with Your Grace. He cares for his sister a great deal, after all."

"My lands are well managed," Victor rejoined waspishly. "This trouble you speak of is France's alone."

Treville nodded graciously in the face of the barb. "That is good to hear. Two of my men were sent out this way to deliver some documents from His Majesty. Did they arrive without complication?"

"They did. I drafted my response and sent them on their way."

"The King will be pleased."

A stilted silence settled between them and Treville wondered how he might continue to stall if the Duke insisted on dismissing him. Fortunately, he was spared the dilemma for another few moments as the Duchess walked in.

"Captain Treville," she said genially. "This is an unexpected surprise. We had two musketeers here just three days ago. To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit?"

"I was simply in the area and wanted to check on some news of bandits terrorizing the border."

"How dreadful," she said. "I don't recall hearing of such trouble." She turned to her husband. "Has there been any?"

"No," Victor replied. "As I told Treville, Savoy is better run than France."

"I was also concerned about my men who came this way," Treville added. "Given the importance of the documents they carried."

"Of course," she said. "They did not mention any trouble on the road."

Treville feigned a smile. "I'm sure they're back in Paris already."

There was another beat of silence that bordered on awkwardness before the Duchess spoke again.

"Would you care for some refreshments, Captain?"

Treville was relieved and inclined his head in gracious acceptance. "That is very kind. Thank you, Your Grace."

"No," the Duke interrupted sharply.

"Victor, where are your manners?" the Duchess chastised in a soft, astonished tone.

Victor's eyes were fixed on Treville with fiery intensity. With a wave of his hand, men who had been in an adjoining room suddenly entered and leveled their swords at Treville.

"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded, caught off guard by the abrupt move.

"I want answers about my missing chancellor," Victor said, stepping closer to sneer in Treville's face. "Perhaps I've been asking the wrong people. As Captain of the Musketeers, you ordered the troop on their assassination mission."

Treville's jaw tightened. He had sent his men on a training exercise, and then through manipulation had been forced to divulge their location, unintentionally offering them up as a sacrifice for the good of France. It was a burden that would weigh upon his soul until the day he died.

"There was no assassination attempt," he said, attempting confusion. "What troop…" He trailed off, widening his eyes as though the dark secret of that Good Friday was only now just occurring to him. "The massacre. We believed it was the Spanish. But you're saying you were behind the attack?"

"Do not play the fool with me, Treville," the Duke spat. "I know the truth."

Treville suddenly had the traitorous thought wondering whether Athos or Porthos _had_ divulged anything. He immediately dismissed it; he trusted his men. And they had been imprisoned because Victor was already convinced of France's complicity in his chancellor's disappearance.

"Victor," the Duchess interjected in a demure voice. "Are you sure you want to do this? My brother will not tolerate a perceived affront against his royal guard."

"I want answers," he snapped. "France has overstepped long enough, thinking it can take advantage of Savoy because we're smaller and not of royal bloodline. I will not tolerate such acts of war!"

Expression taut, she nevertheless stepped back in deference to her husband.

"You have long since blamed France for Cluzet's disappearance," Treville said. "But you are mistaken. Those musketeers six years ago were not here to assassinate you."

Victor smirked. "So your men have maintained. Perhaps they truly don't know the truth. Perhaps only you do. So let's see which you hold in higher value—your lies, or the lives of your men."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Thank you guests Uia, Laureleaf, and Guest for your reviews!**

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Chapter 4

Aramis and d'Artagnan waited for the coast to be clear before breaking cover from the tree line and sneaking around to the back of the manor, leaving their steeds in the woods to await their return. Aramis scanned the grounds for any outbuildings that might be used to hold prisoners, but none seemed like good candidates. Which left the house.

They crept along the wall, keeping low and ducking under windows as they searched for a servants' door or other entrance. When they finally found one, they waited, peering cautiously through the paned windows for any sign of movement within. Fortunately, it seemed the Duke's estate was not bustling with activity. But they still had the problem of infiltrating a house without being spotted, and Aramis had no intention of slaying innocent servants.

He nodded to d'Artagnan, ready to make entry, when movement at the end of the hall had them jerking back and pressing against the wall. Aramis leaned over carefully, peeking around the edge. His heart leaped into his throat as he saw Athos being brought up from what looked like a door to a cellar. His hands were shackled and he was moving stiffly, his upper body partially bowed forward. As they passed more closely before turning down another hallway, Aramis saw the livid bruising and dried blood on his brother's face. There was no sign of Porthos.

D'Artagnan frowned. "Think they're being moved because of Treville?" he whispered.

"I don't know. I'll follow Athos. You check that door he came through and see if Porthos is still down there. We'll meet back at the horses."

"And the captain?"

Aramis pressed his lips into a thin line. Athos did not look to be in good shape, and he could only imagine Porthos was in a similar state. Aramis wanted to get them as far away from this wretched place as soon as possible, but he also wasn't comfortable leaving the captain alone given the Duke's treachery already.

"We won't leave without him," Aramis declared. "But we'll cross that bridge when we come to it."

He turned the handle slowly and eased the door open so he and d'Artagnan could slip inside. Exchanging staunch nods, Aramis turned down the direction Athos had been taken while d'Artagnan continued toward the door at the end of the hall.

The thugs manhandling Athos weren't quiet about it, and it wasn't hard for Aramis to catch up, but before he could attack them in the hallway, they'd entered a large receiving room. Aramis crept up to the door and peered inside, eyes widening in dismay at what he saw: Treville held at sword point by more men and facing down the Duke of Savoy. Athos was flung to his knees a little off to the side, the clink of the shackles the only sound he made. He shifted, and the way he was holding himself suggested abused ribs.

"What is the meaning of this?" Treville demanded, shooting a look at both the Duke and the Duchess, who was standing in the back, not actively a part of the situation but not removed from it.

"I want a confession about the musketeer assassins sent to kill me six years ago," the Duke replied. "And how France kidnapped my chancellor the same night." He took a sword from one of his men and leveled it at Athos's throat. "A confession, or the blood of your musketeer," he sneered.

"This is madness," Treville protested. "The King of France—"

"Took my chancellor," the Duke interrupted. "Seems only fair I take his captain."

Aramis knew he couldn't let this continue. It was supposed to be a quiet rescue, but the Duke obviously wasn't playing by the rules if he was bold enough to take Treville captive as well. Aramis surveyed the room, doing a quick mental calculation before he pulled both pistols and swept through the doors. He shot one of the men guarding Treville and one behind Athos, then flipped his spent pistol in his grip so he could clobber the closer man spinning toward him. That one dropped like a sack of rocks.

The remaining man on the other side of the room lunged at Treville, but the captain snatched up the sword from the shot man and pivoted to face him, both of them drawing to a standstill. Aramis drew his rapier and faced the Duke, who still stood over Athos with his own weapon leveraged threateningly at the musketeer's neck.

"Drop your sword," the Duke warned, pressing the tip just under Athos's skin.

Athos barely flinched, and his tired gaze flickered up, but Aramis couldn't acknowledge him right then. He dare not take his focus away from the Duke.

He remembered how formidable an opponent he was.

He also knew he couldn't disarm him from this distance without risking Athos. Which meant he had to unbalance him.

"You want to know about Good Friday six years ago?" Aramis said. "Neither of them were even there." He took a breath to steel himself. "I was."

"Aramis," Treville uttered in warning.

Athos, too, tried to catch his eye with an alarmed look of his own, but Aramis ignored them both.

"I wounded the leader. A mark down the back." He forced out a small smirk. "I'm sure you're familiar with it."

Aramis watched the Duke's eyes widen with recognition and he took an almost unconscious step away from Athos. Which was what Aramis wanted.

"Impossible," the Duke breathed. "I killed them all."

Aramis flashed him a smug grin. "Not all."

The Duke lunged and Aramis surged forward to meet him head-on, the strident clash of steel ringing through the room.

o.0.o

D'Artagnan carefully descended the steps into the cellar, listening for more men that might be down there. He didn't hear anything. A passage veered off down an ominous looking corridor, so he followed it. Sure enough, the Duke of Savoy had a nice little dungeon at his disposal. D'Artagnan quickened his pace to start searching the cells.

At the second door grate he peeked through, he spotted a large shape hunched against the wall, only half illuminated by a shaft of daylight streaming through a grate near the ceiling.

"Porthos," he hissed.

The figure lifted his head and a gruff voice responded in confusion, "D'Artagnan?"

"Hang on." He quickly pulled out his set of lock picks that had been a gift from Porthos and went to work on the lock of the cell door. It took him a few moments but he was finally able to open it without anyone coming down and discovering him.

He slipped inside and rushed to his friend, frowning at his condition. Porthos's shirt was filthy and speckled with blood, but his face was worse, a mess of various puce colored bruises and swelling.

Porthos blinked up at him. "I must be dreamin'."

D'Artagnan flashed him a cheeky grin. "I'm who you'd dream about? I'm flattered." He knelt down to start picking the locks of the shackles.

The larger musketeer huffed. "Yeah, well, even you can look appealin' after days in this place. What're you even doin' 'ere? It hasn't been long enough for us to be missin', has it?"

"That's a story better left for safer walls," d'Artagnan replied, pursing his mouth as he struggled with the lock.

Porthos grunted as one manacle finally fell away. "We need ta continue your education on lock pickin'."

D'Artagnan rolled his eyes and set to work on the next one.

"Athos was taken away not too long ago," Porthos went on.

"We saw. Aramis went to get him."

"The Duke—"

"Is currently being distracted by the Captain."

"The Capt'in's here too?" Porthos blurted.

"Yeah, but I don't know how long he'll be able to keep the Duke occupied, so we need to get out of here."

"I'm not the one takin' 'is time pickin' the locks."

"Maybe if you stopped distracting me…hah!" D'Artagnan felt a click and pulled the second shackle off.

Porthos immediately pushed himself off the floor unsteadily, obviously favoring one leg.

"Can you walk?" d'Artagnan asked worriedly.

"I can fight," Porthos rumbled, a stubborn set to his jaw.

D'Artagnan gave him a dubious look but nevertheless handed over one of his pistols. He checked the corridor before stepping out of the cell and they made their way back upstairs. D'Artagnan glanced over his shoulder and saw Porthos grimacing with each step. They just needed to get to the horses.

"This way," d'Artagnan whispered, pointing toward the exit once they made it up to the first level.

Porthos shook his head. "Which way was Athos taken?"

D'Artagnan gritted his teeth. "This is supposed to be a covert rescue," he hissed. "We can't go lumbering through the house and risk being seen."

Porthos leveled a dangerous look at him. "I ain't leavin' wit'out 'im. An' let the Duke find us. I have some things to say to 'im."

D'Artagnan bit back a sigh; he knew he wasn't going to be able to dissuade Porthos. Which was probably just as well. He didn't want to leave without the others either, and at least this way he could say he'd _tried_ to follow orders.

He jerked his chin down the hallway where he and Aramis had parted and let Porthos lead the way.

o.0.o

Athos struggled to hold himself up as he watched Aramis and the Duke duel back and forth across the room. They were equally matched in skill and emotional fervor driven by a need for revenge. But whereas Victor had already tipped over the edge into unadulterated rage, Aramis seemed to be maintaining control over his emotions, his movements precise and efficient as ever. He finally caught the Duke's blade with his own and with a deft twist sent the sword flying from Victor's hand. The man tripped and went sprawling on his back on the floor with Aramis looming over him, rapier point leveled at his throat.

"Aramis," Treville called in warning, unable to move from where he and the last guard stood in a standoff.

Aramis didn't move, almost as still as a statue save for the ragged heaving of his shoulders. Victor glowered up at him, nostrils flaring.

"Please," the Duchess blurted, moving forward from the edge of the room, arms splayed beseechingly. "Please stop this. France and Savoy are allies. If we are going to continue to support the best interests of both, we must bury the past." She threw a pleading look between both Aramis and her husband.

Aramis's gaze never wavered from the Duke's, expression seething as he finally stood over the man who'd led the slaughter of twenty musketeers six years ago, who had been the reason Aramis had almost died, left alone in the snow and cold, a wraith barely clinging to life in the weeks after he'd been brought home. Athos knew exactly what that kind of rage felt like, had felt it for a moment in his own duel with the Duke once upon a time. And he knew that he should encourage Aramis to back down, to stay his hand. Yet in that moment, Athos couldn't bring himself to speak. This was Aramis's choice, his right.

The tension was poised on the edge of a knife for several more moments. Then Aramis lowered his sword.

"The troop of musketeers were on a training assignment," he said, voice tightly controlled. "Who told you they were assassins? Your chancellor? False information that could have instigated a war, delivered by a man who then vanished. Perhaps you have been looking for answers in the wrong place."

With that, Aramis turned away, relinquishing his right to justice and protecting his country's secret while diverting suspicion away from the real spy in one fell sweep. Sometimes Athos forgot not to underestimate him.

Movement drew his attention back to Victor, who was drawing a dagger from his boot.

"Aramis!" Athos shouted as the Duke lunged.

Aramis whirled around, bringing his sword up just as Victor flung himself forward. The dagger arced downward and stabbed into Aramis's shoulder while Aramis's sword was thrust up through the underside of Victor's arm into his chest. The Duke's eyes blew wide and the Duchess threw her hands up to cover her gasp.

Athos could only stare in horror until Aramis finally staggered back, pulling his sword free so the Duke could fall to the floor, blood spilling out across the marble. The Duchess ran forward and slid down upon her skirts to reach for her husband's head and pull it into her lap.

Aramis backed up a few more steps before his sword fell from lax fingers and he collapsed as well. Treville twitched as though to move but was still holding the remaining thug at bay.

Athos crawled over to Aramis and reached for his brother. He was still conscious, face scrunched up in pain as harsh breaths stuttered in and out. Athos looked over at the Duchess, in a mirrored position of his own, and they shared a look. Allies they might be, but there was a gulf between the sides they were on that could never be crossed.

She turned to the last guard. "Get a surgeon!"

The man hesitated a beat but then turned and quickly left. Treville hurried over to Athos and Aramis. Clambering footsteps from behind had Athos twisting around, but it was just Porthos and d'Artagnan that came barreling into the room, their eyes widening at the scene before them.

"We need to leave," Treville said sternly, bending down to pick up Aramis's pistols.

"Aramis…" d'Artagnan started.

"Help me up," the marksman gritted out, prying his eyes open. "Take my sash…stabilize the dagger."

"You can't be serious," Porthos sputtered.

Athos glanced back at the Duchess and saw a flicker of regret in her eyes before it was carefully shuttered away behind concern for her husband bleeding in her lap. "He's right, we need to leave now."

He reached to undo Aramis's sash but d'Artagnan knelt down and pulled his arms aside so Porthos could undo the shackles while d'Artagnan saw to the knife wound, wrapping the fabric around it as carefully as possible to keep it from jostling as they made their escape.

And then the five of them hobbled their way out of the manor in a desperate bid to flee while they could.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Thank you guests Uia and Laureleaf for your reviews! Here's some much-needed comfort and caretaking.**

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Chapter 5

Porthos clenched his jaw against the jolting reverberations that rocked through his bruised ribs and muscles under the horse's cantering pace. He imagined Athos was in equal agony, and Aramis had it just as bad with the dagger still stuck in his shoulder, bladed edges jarring raw flesh with each and every thundering beat of hooves. Aramis made no sound though. His own jaw was clamped tight to the point his face looked bloodless. One hand gripped the reins while the other arm was tucked close to his body. Athos sat behind him, looking like he was straining not to lean too heavily against their wounded brother but unable to fully hold himself upright either. Porthos should have swapped with him instead of riding with d'Artagnan.

"We should stop," he called out.

"We are not yet back on French soil," Treville replied from the rear where he rode, covering them in case of pursuit. So far there had been no sign of any.

Porthos growled low in his throat. "Aramis…"

"Don't worry, my friend," the marksman spoke up, voice steady but strained. "I have no intention of dying in this wretched place. Savoy didn't claim me six years ago; it won't now."

"An' how about you droppin' dead when we get back to France?" he groused in return.

"The border is not much further," Treville interjected, putting an end to the exchange.

Porthos gritted his teeth and focused on breathing through his own misery as they continued to make their way through the woods. It felt like an eternity before Treville finally announced that they were back in France and went ahead to scout for a place to stop. Porthos could barely breathe through the pain of his own injuries, and knew Athos and Aramis had to be at their limits as well. But somehow they managed to hold on until Treville returned and directed them to a small clearing backed up against a scarp that was sheltered enough they would only have to worry about being attacked from two sides.

Porthos slid down from the saddle clumsily, the impact of the landing sending lightning through his knee. He would have collapsed if not for the saddlebags to cling to.

D'Artagnan dismounted on the other side and quickly came around, eyes worried as he reached out to offer a supporting hand.

Porthos shook his head. "Help Athos an' Aramis."

Neither of those two had tried to dismount yet. D'Artagnan went over and he and Treville helped Athos down.

"Are your ribs broken?" Treville asked sharply when the man gasped and clutched at his chest.

Athos shook his head. "Only bruised."

"You should…check them…Captain," Aramis said breathlessly. "Porthos…too. They have been…harshly treated."

"You first," Athos replied, tone placid but expression obviously concerned.

Aramis made a choked noise as he swung down from the saddle. D'Artagnan and Athos immediately reached to steady him. They moved a few feet away from the horses before more or less dropping like stones. Porthos limped over to join them.

"Bandages in…saddlebags," Aramis continued to gasp. "Bind the ribs…firmly. Porthos's knee…too."

"Stop talking," Athos commanded, but it was gentle and held a rare note of fondness. "We need to pull the dagger out."

Aramis's gaze flickered down to the protruding hilt and he finally groaned, head lolling away from it. "D'Artagnan. Looks like you get…your first tutorial…in sewing."

The boy's head shot up in alarm. "What? No…"

"Athos an'…Porthos…are in no fit state…to hold a needle." Aramis's face scrunched up as another strangled sound got trapped in his throat. "When did you last…ungh, food, water?"

"That can wait," Porthos huffed, even though he was parched and his stomach cramped at the reminder of its prevailing hunger. They'd been given meager rations during their captivity to keep them alive, nothing more.

Treville wordlessly handed him a waterskin and then got up to retrieve Aramis's med kit from the saddlebag. Porthos took a desperate swig and passed it to Athos.

D'Artagnan threw a helpless look at the captain when he returned with the med kit and held it out to the lad, but Porthos knew Treville didn't have the eyes for this kind of delicate work. Porthos didn't have the stomach, even if he could see straight at the moment, and Athos definitely wouldn't be able to hold himself upright long enough to see the task done. Porthos wondered if Athos's assessment of his ribs was as faulty as Aramis's own self-estimation.

Treville crouched down next to the marksman and began to unwind the sash from the dagger. "We'll have to work quickly to prevent too much blood loss," the captain cautioned.

"Sp-spirits," Aramis stuttered.

"We know," Athos reassured. "We'll clean the wound before d'Artagnan stitches it."

"Aramis, I don't know what I'm doing," d'Artagnan protested fearfully.

"We'll talk you through it," Athos promised. "But Aramis is right, d'Artagnan," he said seriously. "You are the only one of us who can do this."

D'Artagnan's throat bobbed, but he finally gave a slow nod and drew his shoulders back. "Alright."

Athos handed the waterskin back to Porthos and scooted back enough to be out of the way but still near enough to oversee the procedure. Treville got into position with one hand on Aramis's shoulder and the other wrapping around the hilt of the dagger.

"Ready?"

Aramis grimaced. "No but do it anyway."

Treville gave a curt nod and then yanked the blade out in one firm movement. A scream tore from Aramis's throat as horrendously as steel had torn from flesh. Porthos's stomach churned in sympathy.

Treville quickly opened Aramis's doublet and pushed it and his shirt aside to expose the wound, which was now pumping blood freely. He snatched up the sash and wadded it up, pressing it to the gash. Aramis arched and choked on another cry. "D'Artagnan, thread the needle."

D'Artagnan hurried to do so, his fingers fumbling with the horse hair and eye.

Athos reached out to clasp his arm. "Treville has to slow the bleeding first. Take a moment and concentrate."

D'Artagnan let out a harsh breath. "Right. Sorry."

"You have nothing to apologize for. You can do this, d'Artagnan."

The boy firmed his jaw and bent his head over the needle and thread again. He had it threaded within another moment.

Treville slowly eased back on the pressure and peeked at the wound. "Alright, it's slowed somewhat."

Athos uncapped the flask of spirits and passed it over. Porthos cringed at the choking sounds Aramis made when the acerbic liquid poured into the wound, but then he fell limp, having finally passed out.

Treville beckoned d'Artagnan over and began to instruct him on how to place the stitches. Porthos watched, trying not to focus on the actual sewing but on the shallow breaths rising and falling from his friend's chest to prove that he was still with them, that Porthos hadn't lost him to Savoy after all.

"How'd you know to come fer us?" he found himself asking quietly.

Treville glanced over. "The Duchess sent word of your arrest."

Huh. He supposed she'd done all she could for them, then. But his bruises weren't feeling much gratitude at the moment and Porthos didn't feel particularly guilty that they'd left her with a potentially dying husband. He wanted the Duke dead for what he'd done, not just to him and Athos, but for all the anguish Aramis had suffered because of Savoy over the years. And now.

Once d'Artagnan seemed to settle into a rhythm of stitching, Treville moved to Athos, gesturing for him to lift his shirt so the captain could check his injuries. Athos grimaced as he gingerly lifted the hem of his ragged shirt, only able to make it partway. Treville gently took the fabric and pulled it up the rest.

A muscle in Porthos's jaw jerked at the sight of his friend's battered torso. He'd known the injuries weren't pretty, knew his own body bore the same marks. But it still infuriated him.

Treville's expression was equally stormy though he was stoic about carefully palpating Athos's ribs. Athos choked on a few grunts through the process, but the captain concluded nothing was broken, thankfully. He reached for a roll of linen to wrap the bruised ribs for stability.

"We'll stay the night here," Treville declared.

"Is that wise?" Athos asked quietly.

"We're on French soil now. Plus I doubt the Duke will be in any condition to order his men after us. In any case, the three of you have been taxed beyond your limits and d'Artagnan and I will be better able to defend this position than we will getting you on horses and keeping you there."

Athos's eyes narrowed as he bristled at the assessment. Porthos was inclined to argue as well, but looking back at an unconscious Aramis still getting stitched up by d'Artagnan and he had to acknowledge that it would be too taxing. And above all else, he was intent on seeing his brothers home alive and well, even if it cost them a delay.

Treville finished wrapping Athos's ribs, then stood and retrieved another roll of linen from the saddlebags and a second waterskin. He handed the water to Athos on his way over to Porthos.

Porthos submitted to the examination, clenching his teeth so hard he thought he might crack one during it. Especially when the captain tried to roll up the leg of his trousers to look at his knee.

"That's pretty swollen," he commented. "There's a water source nearby. I'll soak some cloths to wrap it with."

While he was gone, d'Artagnan finished up the stitching and rocked back on his haunches, looking exhausted.

"You did well," Athos said, surveying his work.

"Give Aramis a run for his money," Porthos added.

The boy gave them a wan smile and started to reverently clean and pack away their resident medic's tools.

Treville returned and wrapped Porthos's knee with the cold cloths, which Porthos had to admit did have a relieving effect. Then he bound Porthos's ribs just to be safe. When he was done with that, he went back over to help d'Artagnan finish with Aramis, propping the unconscious marksman up while d'Artagnan padded bandages over the stitched wound and wrapped Aramis's blue sash around his shoulder and chest to hold them in place. Aramis didn't rouse through any of it.

Treville grabbed some dried meat from the saddlebags and tossed it to Porthos and Athos with a command to eat. He instructed d'Artagnan to refill the waterskins while he set about gathering wood for a fire later. There were still a few hours of daylight left, making Porthos feel restless that they weren't on the move. Not that they were in any shape to be.

He scooted closer to Aramis so he could reach out and check for chills or fever. This time of year the temperature was moderate, which was fortunate. No frozen nights or a frost covered ground to wake up on.

D'Artagnan returned with more water and sat down next to Athos, wetting a cloth and then giving the man a rather blatant puppy-eyed look. "May I?"

"I can do it myself."

"You have no mirror."

"I'll manage."

"Jus' let 'im fuss, Athos," Porthos said. "You're used to it from Aramis."

"You're next," d'Artagnan lobbed over his shoulder.

Porthos couldn't help but grin, only to wince as it pulled at scabbed over cuts on his own face.

Treville took a seat across from them and began reloading Aramis's pistols to have on hand should they need them.

D'Artagnan glanced over. "So what happens now?" he asked. "The Duke…"

"May live," Treville finished.

"And if he does, will there be war or will we be branded as rogue assassins acting against the will of the King of France? The King did warn us about making an incident on this rescue mission."

Porthos stiffened in alarm.

Treville, however, remained seemingly unfazed. "If the Duke wants to pursue war, then he will have to admit to detaining the captain of the Musketeers and torturing two of the King's men, who were there on royal business. Not to mention he confessed to the murder of twenty musketeers."

"He's angry enough," Athos said softly. "This whole mess might have driven him over the edge."

"If he survives 'is wound," Porthos muttered darkly. He was still hoping the bastard would die. Preferably after suffering first.

"Wouldn't it be worse if he dies?" d'Artagnan asked.

"What exactly are we sayin' here?" Porthos said, shifting agitatedly. "Can we even go back to Paris?"

"That is a question for when you're all well enough to travel," Treville answered, flicking a look at Aramis. "Which won't be until at least tomorrow. So rest while you can. D'Artagnan and I will split the watches."

Porthos pressed his mouth into a thin line. He didn't like not knowing what awaited them back home. The Duke was the one in the wrong here, not them.

"It does us no good to think about it right now," Athos said quietly to him.

"Can't help it," Porthos replied sullenly.

D'Artagnan moved around to crouch in front of him, ready to clean the dried blood from his face. "We'll figure it out," he said, all youthful optimism that experience hadn't tempered yet. But looking up to meet the lad's eyes, Porthos saw the promise wasn't that everything would work out; the promise was that no matter what happened, the four of them would stick together.

Porthos nodded in agreement of that.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Thank you guests Laureleaf and Uia for your reviews! Last chapter here.**

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Chapter 6

It was a quiet and uneventful night in the forest, broken only by the pained sounds emanating from the wounded men as they shifted in discomfort on the uneven ground. They needed a proper place to rest and recover, so when morning came, Treville ordered d'Artagnan to break camp. They fashioned a makeshift sling with some bandages for Aramis's arm, and Treville took a moment to consider riding arrangements. With three out of five of them barely fit to travel and pursuit still a possibility, it was going to be a challenge.

"Porthos, can you manage a horse with Athos?"

Of course the man immediately nodded.

"Aramis, you'll ride with d'Artagnan."

No protest was made. There weren't enough horses to go around for anyone to be prideful.

Getting everyone in the saddle proved to be another challenge, but they eventually made it and set off.

The nearest town was only two hours away at their sluggish pace, but it was enough to reignite all the hurts his men were stoically trying to hide. They found an inn and Treville paid for two rooms, leaving orders for the four of them to rest and heal while he went on ahead to Paris to report what had happened. They'd protested that, of course, not wanting him to stand alone should he be branded a rogue. Their loyalty was touching and in many ways undeserving. Savoy was his sin and it was his men who were continually paying the price for it. Not this time. He was prepared to accept the consequences. Consequences that were a long time coming.

He rode swiftly to Paris, wondering if word might have reached the King beforehand. Apparently, it had. Both Louis and the Cardinal were in a snit the moment Treville entered the receiving room.

"You were supposed to be discreet!" Louis railed. "Not try to kill the Duke of Savoy!"

"This is truly a mess, Captain Treville," Richelieu put in, unable to not interject his own judgement on matters. "If you had come to me before running off—"

"It was a mess to begin with," Treville interrupted. "The Duchess's secret was of primary importance." Not entirely, but he would never say so. Treville took a deep breath and turned to the King. "We were discreet, Your Majesty. I called upon the Duke, saying I was near the border on personal business and wanted to check on the documents given their importance. It was then that Victor Amadeus decided to detain me for interrogation on Cluzet as well."

Louis's eyes widened even further and his cheeks puffed red. "The audacity of that man!"

"Your men talked?" Richelieu asked, sounding alarmed.

"No," Treville snapped. "They divulged nothing even though they were tortured for three days. The men I took to Savoy with me were securing our escape when the Duke refused to let us leave. Aramis beat him in a duel and spared his life, but Victor attacked him from behind. They were both injured, but the musketeer was only acting in self-defense."

"As if that will matter," Louis groused. "Victor will declare war on France for this. And he'll draw Spain in as an ally!"

"Has there been word on his condition?" Treville asked carefully.

Louis's face puckered with a scowl and he shook his head. "Only that it is grave."

"We must rectify this situation as quickly as possible," the Cardinal said urgently. "The musketeers were acting alone, unsanctioned by the Crown, and they will be executed for their crimes."

Treville stiffened.

Louis sighed. "Of course, you're right."

"Your Majesty," Treville interjected. "The Duke of Savoy confessed in front of several witnesses, including myself, that he was responsible for the troop of musketeers killed in Savoy six years ago."

Louis looked surprised while Richelieu narrowed his eyes.

"That and his recent actions hardly paint him as the injured party should he declare war on France," Treville continued. "As for the matter of Cluzet, one of Your Majesty's musketeers, Aramis, deftly suggested that Cluzet himself was the spy, responsible for false information before he fled in secret. We can't know whether Victor will believe it, but it casts doubt on the validity of his claims."

Louis's brows rose. "Indeed." He turned to Richelieu. "Why didn't we think of that before?"

"It was unnecessary," the Cardinal replied stiffly.

The Captain drew his shoulders back to hold his head high. "I take full responsibility for this mission, Your Majesty. My men were following my orders. So if there is any punishment to be meted out for the sake of preserving relations with Savoy, it should fall on me alone."

Louis huffed and rolled his eyes. "What am I supposed to do?" he whined.

The Cardinal's shrewd gaze was still fixed on Treville. "Nothing, Your Majesty," he finally said. "The Duke threatened the Captain of the King's royal guard and unlawfully detained two of his men there on the King's business. He violated the treaty on multiple grounds first. If he insists on pursuing matters, well, he is currently weak and vulnerable. Who's to say whether there will not be complications from his wounds."

Louis gave Richelieu a dry look, but then huffed. "My sister would be most angry if I had her husband killed," he pouted. "Still, I'll keep it in mind if the old swine does survive."

With that, he strode off. Treville shared a look with Richelieu. They butted heads on many fronts, but in this they were united against a common enemy. An enemy Richelieu's own lies had created, and Treville hated how he'd become an unwilling collaborator in the secret of Savoy that just refused to be laid to rest.

But at least his men and their commissions were secure. For now.

Treville turned and walked away. Time to retrieve his men and bring them home.

o.0.o

Aramis woke to insistent throbbing in his shoulder. He rolled his head to the side, biting back a muffled grunt of pain. There was a pitcher of water and a tin cup on the small table beside his bed, so he gingerly pushed himself upright one-handed, scooting back to lean against the headboard. The effort left him cringing and he had to close his eyes and breathe through the pain for several moments.

There was a crinkle of a straw mattress and he opened his eyes to see Athos sitting up in the bed perpendicular to his. The array of mottled colors on his face was becoming more impressive by the day, and he moved with the same stiltedness as Aramis. Yet Athos reached for the pitcher and poured some water in the cup before holding it out. Aramis took the cup with a grateful nod and gulped it down, the tepid liquid quenching his thirst. His arm dropped into his lap tiredly. Athos plucked the cup out of his lax hand and refilled it before handing it back.

"How are your injuries?" Aramis asked before taking another sip, slower this time.

"Healing. How are you?"

"I'll live." Savoy had not claimed him, despite its best attempts to do so. Again.

Athos's look was all too knowing. "I know. I meant about having to face the Duke of Savoy like that."

Aramis dropped his gaze to his cup. He would have shrugged if the action wouldn't have sent lances of fire through his shoulder. "I couldn't not come for you and Porthos."

"Still, being there couldn't have been easy."

"You suffered greater at his hands."

"That's debatable," Athos replied. "And it's not a contest."

Aramis huffed out a breath and lifted his eyes to the ceiling. "What do you want me to say? For a moment there, I wanted to kill him."

He had the man responsible for the murder of twenty of his friends, his brothers, at the end of his blade. One quick move and he could have gotten justice for them. For Marsac. For Athos and Porthos.

"I know the feeling. You're the better man, Aramis."

Aramis's mouth twisted bitterly. "I'm surprised you would say so, given recent events."

Athos was quiet for a moment. "I know treason wasn't on your mind on that night we'll never speak of," he said quietly. "You never intend to do ill, though I wish you would consider your actions and their consequences a bit more carefully."

Aramis sighed. "I cannot take it back." Nor did he think he would, though he would never confess so to Athos.

"No, but you must go on as if it never happened."

Aramis closed his eyes against a swell of grief as thoughts of Isabelle rose unbidden in his mind. He'd lost a child before it was ever his, and Isabelle had left. He'd searched and searched for her, but when he failed, yes, he'd eventually moved on.

But Isabelle had been hidden from him and Anne was there every day. Their child would be there every day, so close and yet out of reach. Aramis didn't know how he would be able to bear it.

But coming back into Isabelle's life had ruined it, and Aramis knew that allowing himself to get close to Anne and their child would result in the same.

"Aramis, do you hear me?" Athos asked, and he could discern the thread of worry in his stern tone.

"Yes," he whispered, resigning himself to it. "I suppose it won't matter though," he added. "If we're branded traitors for nearly assassinating the Duke of Savoy."

"It wasn't an assassination," Athos said darkly.

Aramis snorted. "Neither was six years ago."

Athos shifted, grimacing, and scooted back so he could prop himself up against the pillows. "We can never get full justice for that, for which I am sorry."

"I know," Aramis said. "Which is why I didn't kill the Duke." He quirked his lips. "But thrashing him in a duel was a bit satisfying."

"Until he stabbed you."

"Until that."

The door creaked open and they looked over as d'Artagnan entered. The boy smiled at them.

"Hey, you're both awake."

"How's Porthos?" Aramis asked.

"The swelling's gone down and he can see out of both eyes now. Let me check your wound."

Aramis was relieved to hear it. He wished he had been in better shape to tend to his brothers, but it seemed d'Artagnan was doing a capable job. Aramis consented to the examination, curious to inspect the boy's sewing since he hadn't been conscious when it was done.

D'Artagnan helped him get his arm out of the sling and then unwound the bandages.

"Doesn't look infected," he commented.

"We'll make a medic out of you yet," Aramis replied.

D'Artagnan snorted. "No thanks. I'm perfectly happy to pass the torch back once you're better."

Aramis struggled to hold himself upright while d'Artagnan wrapped his shoulder and chest in fresh bandages and put his arm back in the sling. He sagged back against the headboard when it was done.

"What herbs do you need for the pain?" Athos asked.

Aramis waved a hand weakly. "It's fine."

"You sound pathetic when you lie. None of us are leaving this inn any time soon. Take the herbs."

Aramis sighed.

"I already have them steeped in some tea," d'Artagnan put in before he could respond. "I'll get it."

He exited the room and returned a couple of minutes later with two steaming cups. He handed one to Aramis and the other to Athos. Athos pulled a face at the brew and started to set it aside.

"Enduring pain isn't a contest," Aramis said, throwing Athos's earlier words back at him. It earned him a glower, which he merely smirked at before downing the bitter tea.

Athos drank his more slowly and d'Artagnan stood watch to make sure he finished it. A medic in the making indeed.

Aramis eventually started to feel drowsy, so he closed his eyes and drifted off again.

o.0.o

After four days at the inn, Athos was restless. He wanted to ride to Paris, but they'd agreed to wait here for Treville. And while their injuries were healing, they were all still a bit stiff and sore. Athos and Porthos still looked like the walking wounded, their faces blotched with sickly greens and yellows now. Aramis would be out of commission for a while longer, and the sad truth of the matter was the only one fine and fit among them was d'Artagnan, so if a fight was waiting for them in Paris, they would sorely lose.

But staying so close to the border of Savoy made Athos nervous too. He was constantly on watch from the inn's window for large groups passing through. So far it had just been the typical travelers though. He was anxious for news of Savoy and what had happened to Treville.

The four of them were sitting around in Porthos and d'Artagnan's room, eating a meager meal, when the captain finally returned.

Athos looked up upon his entrance, immediately sweeping his gaze past Treville to the hallway outside and back again. "I gather from the lack of chains that you haven't been charged with anything."

"No," the captain replied, closing the door behind him. "The Duke is still alive, though the Cardinal was quick to suggest France could change that if need be."

D'Artagnan's brows shot upward in dismay while Porthos looked a bit pleased with that suggestion. Aramis's expression was carefully blank, and Athos couldn't decide whether such a suggestion was distasteful or welcome, given everything that had happened. Perhaps it was dishonorable to dispose of a man while he was weak, but sometimes dishonorable men weren't worth the consideration.

"In any case," Treville went on. "The Duke was the one who violated the treaty with his actions." He roved his gaze over them. "How are the four of you faring?"

"Eager to stop starin' at these same walls," Porthos replied.

"Are you fit for travel?"

"Yes," Athos declared. It wouldn't be the most comfortable journey, but they'd had worse. And it would do them good to get home.

Treville nodded, accepting the assessment. "I brought extra horses. We'll leave within the hour."

They finished their meal and then Athos helped d'Artagnan carry their bags down.

"Athos," d'Artagnan began, sounding hesitant.

"Yes?"

D'Artagnan glanced around as though making sure they were alone. "Have you noticed Aramis being…distracted lately?"

"Savoy has brought up a lot of bad memories," Athos replied.

"No, I meant, before this."

Athos stopped and frowned at him. "What are you asking?"

D'Artagnan grimaced, his jaw working like he wanted to retract this conversation. "It's just…he's seemed more pensive lately, and when he's on guard duty at the palace, around the Queen, he seems…"

"Has he done anything?" Athos hissed.

D'Artagnan blinked. "No, of course not." He inhaled sharply. "So it's true. Aramis has—"

"Let it go," Athos warned. Damn it, it was bad enough his and Aramis's necks were on the line; he didn't want d'Artagnan's to be as well.

The boy, of course, didn't know when to back off. "But I should know if I need to be looking out for Aramis," he pressed.

Athos's jaw tightened. He didn't give d'Artagnan enough credit sometimes. "Aramis always needs looking after," he pointed out dryly.

"Yeah, but, you don't think he'd _actually_ be that stupid…"

Athos almost chuffed out a bitter laugh. How many times had he asked that?

He considered his next words carefully. "Aramis's heart may stray, but his duty won't."

But if the twain should meet…God help them all.

D'Artagnan finally nodded in acceptance and they continued toward the stable where Treville had their horses saddled and ready.

Aramis and Porthos came out, the larger man still favoring his injured leg slightly.

"No more missions to Savoy," he grumbled. "Allies be damned."

Athos silently agreed. Better to let sleeping dogs lie.


End file.
